


It’s My Party (I’ll Throw It If I Want To)

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dean is Eighteen Years Old, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff, High School Student Sam, House Party, Humor, I Just Want These Two To Be Happy Goddamnit (:, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Impressing a Girl, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Party, Sam is Fourteen Years Old, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam rolled his eyes, journeying to the living room in search of the DC-hatted hooligans. Kitchen table, check. Kitchen island, check. The only other place to design such a thing would be the pool table, but that thing’s been hiding under layers of castaway clothes, boots, school notes, you name it.</p><p>Interesting. No hooligans, but there was a girl sitting in the corner of the room, her phone screen the only illumination in the dark and otherwise unoccupied space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s My Party (I’ll Throw It If I Want To)

**Author's Note:**

> I just love Eileen/Sam, okay? They have more chemistry than I have trash in my body (that's a lot).

It’s My Party (I’ll Throw It If I Want To)

“So, I have this thing.”

“We all know you have genital herpes, Sam.”

Sam reached for his textbooks. “Okay, I’m just gonna—”

But before he could grab his Jansport and flap away like the brown tarp covering the back window of John’s Impala after being put in the ever-so trusty hands of Dean himself, Dean’s trench coated foil, Castiel Novak, begged, “Sam, c’mon. Do you know how much convincing it took me for Dean to step foot in a library?”

“I’m still waiting for that threesome with that lumberjack librarian, Benny.”

“Well, now I guess you _know,”_ Cas rejoined, shooting Dean “the look”. 

Sam couldn’t refrain from cringing, but plopped his books back down. “First off: Dean, you’re a jerk—”

“Duly noted,” Dean said, promptly saluting his brother, “now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go _jerk_ off—”

“—and secondly…” Sam paused, chest inflating like a balloon as his lips quirked up. “I wanna throw a party.”

Dean searched Sam’s hazel eyes, then his mouth for any indication of the “ _gotcha_ ”, but when Sam just kept staring back like a puppy anticipating the daily food drop, he threw his head back laughing. A few people around them scoped the room before spotting Scotty the Sociopath, and tossed glares in their direction.

Dean finally caught his breath, face morphing into the color of a fresh beet, “You… _whoo,_ I-I’m sorry,” sputtered the eldest, holding up his hand. “It’s just the thought of you…” More laughter bubbled to the surface, “…throwing a party. I mean, I thought I’d catch you with a bag of pot, or making out with another dude—”

“Your faith in me is _astounding,_ thank you.”

“So what do you wanna do with this,” Dean stifled another chuckle, “party?”

“What do you mean?”

Dean peered up at Sam through arched emerald eyes. “Dude, no one throws a party without a game plan. What’s your poison, drugs, alcohol, sex? Am I going to have to give the birds and the bees talk again? I mean listen, girls are…” Dean’s eyes widened as a scene played behind his eyes in a way that anyone would assume he was high off all _three_ of those things. Cas slapped his shoulder with a scoff. “But guys are great, too. Cas is great. You’re great, babe. Much bendy, very.... _anyway,_ what’s up?”

Sam stared ahead where he assumed a camera would be if his life were a reality show when Cas piped up, “I think it’s a great idea. You could use a break, especially with the ever-piling stress of finals—we all could.”

Dean didn’t miss his opportunity to jump in: “Oh no, no, _no_ —”

“ _Dean,”_ Cas warned. He rolled his eyes, then leaned over and whispered something into Dean’s ear. Sam couldn’t tell from his view (thank God), but he was pretty sure Cas swiped his tongue along the shell of Dean’s ear because Dean giggled. _Giggled,_ like a fucking five-year-old.

Sure enough, a moment later, Dean leaned back in his chair with a smug smile and said, “What do we need?”

***

A week later, the three had the set up for an idiot-friendly, tone-deaf welcome party.

The ceiling was tapped with rainbow streamers (before Dean promptly ripped them off, claiming he may have been “a _little_ gay, but not _that_ gay”), and the kitchen table slathered with a multi-cultural spread of foods (at least, according to Dean), from pepperoni to pineapple pizza, to Lays and Doritos and Takis.

The drinks were on the island; pretty much anything the brothers could dredge up from their father’s never-ending liquor pantry, and lemonade for the lightweights. With whatever money the boys had left from their last birthdays, they bought a low-grade karaoke system for the living room (if the guests were drunk enough, they just might see it as a mirage for a much bigger set-up).

Also upon Dean’s request, Asia filtered through the 1200 square foot house while they waited on the couch. Luckily, it wasn’t too long until RSVPers filed in, sparing Sam a lifetime of therapy. (Whatever Cas had promised Dean, Sam thought for _sure_ was going to go down on that couch in lickety-split.)

He immediately recognized Ash and Jo, a brother and sister duo who came straight from _The Roadhouse,_ their mother Ellen’s bar and eatery, and Benny from the library. Cole came too, to his surprise. He thought for sure that fishing trip with the Khan Worm incident would’ve turned him off from the Winchesters completely. There was Garth, a stereotypically tall and skinny white guy from Chem, but nice nonetheless. No sign of—

Scratch that.

Amelia Richardson just stepped foot into his house. _The_ Amelia Richardson, with her expertly crimped brown hair and pear-shaped cheekbones as ripe as the sun is yellow. She was remarkably a lot shorter than Sam’s six foot, so she walked with more elegance and poise, her pink floral dress swinging like a curtain near an open window around her ankles—

A _curtain?_ No wonder he almost failed Creative Writing—

Oh God. The Rubys just walked in. They look innocent, clutching their matching sequined purses and whispering amongst each other, but inside those purses were condoms and hand grenades (maybe even together) and that whispering was them conspiring ways on how to eliminate competition in the room.

Didn’t believe him? One was blonde and the other was brown (the yin to the yang) _and_ they wore shirts underneath red leather biker jackets with a Betty Boop-impressionist that read “The Devil made me do it”.

“Oh my God! Sammy!” they yelled in unison, causing a few heads to turn. Sam groaned.

Worst of all, they had a crush on him, of all people.

They ran to him at a God-like speed, spouting their latest drama: “Okay, so look,” Ruby 2, the brunette, said, grinding against Sam’s torso, “I’m thinking of getting a boob job in a few years, can you feel these?” She rubbed against him again like a cat trying to gain friction, but Ruby 1 was quick to push her aside.

“Sam, your mouth just gets bigger every time I see it,” she stated, grazing her thumb just under his lip and over his lightly stubble chin. “I bet your tongue can do some _cah-raazzy_ things, you know what I mean?”

Both Rubys burst into laughter like two dying hyenas. Just then, he saw out of the corner of his eye the guy Amelia was talking to, Don something-or-other, move to confide in one of his buddies. (Serves him right, Sam thought, he didn’t even _like_ dogs. What more could two people bond over?)

Sam, by the grace of God, managed to wrestle out of the Rubys’ stronghold and make his way to her.

Only, by the time he weaved his way through the traffic of people, Amelia was nowhere to be seen.

“Son of a—”

“Hey, Belushi,” came Dean’s voice followed by a rough slap on his shoulder, “some guys are trying to hog the ping pong table. You’re taller, can you just soften ‘em up a little?”

Sam threw his head back incredulously. “We don’t _have_ a ping pong table.”

“Exactly.”

Sam rolled his eyes, journeying to the living room in search of the DC-hatted hooligans. Kitchen table, _check._ Kitchen island, _check._ The only other place to design such a thing would be the pool table, but that thing’s been hiding under layers of castaway clothes, boots, school notes, you name it.

Interesting. No hooligans, but there was a girl sitting in the corner of the room, her phone screen the only illumination in the dark and otherwise unoccupied space.

Sam could only see the top of her lightly penciled eyebrows and loosely-coiled bun of brown hair. Pushing back a loose lock of hair himself, Sam crouched down and peered up at her. She was actually pretty cute, eyes the shape and color of roasted almonds underneath a fine line of eyeliner, and pink lips not exaggerated with a felt tip pen. It was actually nice seeing a girl who didn’t go overboard on the whole makeup thing.

“Hey,” he said carefully, “are you okay?” No answer. When Sam touched her shoulder, the girl looked up and recoiled violently. “Sorry! I, uh, was just making you weren’t hurt or anything...”

The girl relaxed and smiled faintly. “Not by you,” she said, words lightly slurred as she gestured with her head to the packed room, “but maybe them.”

“Why’s that?”

“They don’t really talk to me,” the girl replied, shrugging. “But it’s okay.”

Sam darted his head between the rowdy scene and back at her, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

That’s when the girl aligned the screen of her phone with her other hand, which began to tense into a ball with her thumb encased by her other four fingers. She was spelling her name: _E-i-l-e-e-n._

Luckily, Sam was gifted with languages, ASL being no exception. He introduced himself by spoken word then signed, _Most of these people are jackasses._

_Why did you invite them then?_

Sam laughed at her bluntness, “That’s a fair point.” Then, with whatever audacity he couldn’t muster earlier to talk to Amelia, he sat across from Eileen. _Who dragged you here?_

“My Aunt Mildred,” she replied. “She thinks your brother’s a decent kid, so she thought I should go.”

_Boy, is she in for a surprise._

Eileen giggled. _I take it you two are night and day?_

 _I would sure hope so,_ Sam said. _Applying at Stanford is a far cry from downing Jello Shots off someone’s ass. “_ Don’t get me wrong, Dean’s smart, he just doesn’t really apply himself…well, _anywhere—”_

Eileen’s mouth dropped like a blowfish’s. “You’re going to Stanford?”

“Again, I sure _hope_ so.”

“Me too!”

 _No way!_ Sam exclaimed, _Law school?_

Eileen nodded enthusiastically. “My Dad served in the Marines for a while, so I guess you could say ambition runs thick in the family.”

“Listen, I just met you, but I’d like it if you stopped living my life.”

Eileen narrowed her eyes with a _pfft. No. You can’t be serious._

_Insane, right?_

“Wow,” Eileen breathed, shaking her head disbelievingly.

 _I’m sorry, I’m being totally rude,_ Sam interjected, “Do you want anything to drink? Everything’s mostly alcohol, which that may or may not squander your chances at Stanford, but there’s lemonade, and I think we might even have a case of Sprite in the fridge—”

Before he could ramble on like Zeppelin (God, he really _was_ Dean’s brother), Sam felt a hand wrap around his wrist, a warmth like the sun penetrating through his flannel. He looked over at Eileen, who wore a smile on her face without a trace of lip. “I think I have everything I need.”

Sam smiled just as wide. _Me too._


End file.
